


i'm not ready (for the weight of us)

by VileValkyrie



Series: The Departing AU [2]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I both love and hate making these characters suffer, No one is ever happy, and its going to be like that for a while
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 11:13:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21445285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VileValkyrie/pseuds/VileValkyrie
Summary: There are thieves, who rob us blindAnd kings, who kill us fineBut steady, the rights and the wrongsInvade us, in innocent songI'm not readyFor the weight of usFor the weight of all us“The Weight of Us” - Sanders BohlkeFollowing Taisie's death at the hands of Balthazar, Dragon's Watch struggles to come to terms with the secrets their Commander kept, and the responsibilities they are now left to shoulder.
Series: The Departing AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1539673
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	i'm not ready (for the weight of us)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!!  
As we get into the meat of the story, I'm going to try to keep up a regular schedule of posting a weekly or biweekly chapter, most likely on Fridays. We'll see how that goes, because I'm getting close to the end of the semester, so naturally classes are starting to make my life a whole lot more complicated.  
That being said, this series will cover Path of Fire and all of Living World Season 4. As I've mentioned before, I'm not sure how long that will take, only that I WILL be doing it!! Will I continue on into the Icebrood Saga after I'm done? Maybe. Seeing the Whisper in the Dark trailer has me sorely tempted. Right now I'm just trying to stay focused on what I've already put on my plate.

The world is, in a sense far more literal than figurative at the moment, on fire. The stone, the dust and dirt, every dry weed and desert shrub clinging stubbornly to the crumbling spire, roots winding their way through every crack and crevice, _all of it_ burns with a heat and intensity that can only be manifested by its own towering, triumphant God.  
There are Forged everywhere, as numerous as the great swathes of flame consuming the battleground, blank metal faces as cold and unyielding as the weapons they wield. And the _sky..._ what had once been a vibrant, cloudless blue twinkling like hope and determination is now tinted an eerie red and clotted with thick, choking clouds of ash and smoke.

How had it all gone so wrong?

The first thing Kasmeer sees when she and her companions crest the top of the spire is his face: Balthazar, sneering and victorious, looming over something so heartbreakingly small, a winged speck at the feet of a giant.

Kasmeer had never personally met Aurene. She had only ever heard stories of the little hatchling from Taimi, and only in the rare moments that she and the young asura had the chance to catch up. The past year had been wretchedly hectic, a series of calamities happening one after the other in the wake of the war against Mordremoth. But there is no mistaking the shine of little crystals, or the pretty shimmer of blue scales, bright beacons amidst a backdrop of utter and abrupt violence.  
How Aurene had even made it all the way to Elona from her chamber in Tarir on her own, Kasmeer would never know. But from the looks of the glowing, ember-like chains tangled hopelessly around her body, she is in serious trouble.

Determination and conviction pierces the layers of betrayed despondency and confusion that had caked like hardened clay around her heart since the day Balthazar had been revealed. Her faith in the Gods is important to her, (dare she say an invisible cornerstone of her identity, her anchor in the midst of all this upheaval) but the God of War had since repeatedly proven himself an honorless madman that cared only for his own gratification.  
The last time she and her friends had attempted to confront Balthazar, he’d crushed them in seconds. Vlast’s sacrifice had been the only reason any of them survived that fight. This time, the War God is _not_ going to get the better of them. Regardless of her own sadness, Kasmeer has a responsibility to her friends. To Tyria.

And right now, that responsibility starts with saving Aurene.

It isn’t until Kasmeer notices the _unearthly_ sound slicing through the fetid heat and horror around them that she finally pauses. Balthazar had long since noticed their presence, yet he’d made no move to strike at them. His focus is wholly on the hatchling, writhing and struggling against the grip of the bright, ghostly chains snared around her body.  
Time seems to slow, the roaring of the inferno fading to the likeness of a flickering candle in the background, easily forgotten in the wake of another terrible scream ripping from the jaws of the scion.  
Kasmeer doesn’t know what scares her more: the fact that Aurene, in her youth and innocence, is even _capable_ of making such a sound, or whatever could be the cause of it.

It is a cry that surpasses fear, or even terror. It speaks of a deep, unfathomable grief; loss incomprehensible. It is a sound you make not for yourself... but for someone you love.  
Aurene gives another heartrending scream, tugging viciously at Balthazar’s chains in a desperate frenzy. She isn’t trying to get away, Kasmeer realizes. She is reaching for someone, a dark and crumpled shadow splayed across the ground not two feet from where she is trapped.  
Something terrible locks like a vice around Kasmeer’s heart, a tightness in her chest and an unnameable emotion that burns in her eyes and steals the air from her lungs. That simply _cannot_ be what she thinks it is.

Rytlock and Canach have already leapt headfirst into the fray, the former battling it out with the Cannonade that has lumbered over to its master’s side, while the latter sends several Warhounds sprawling into the rising tide of Balthazar's forces.  
It seems Kasmeer alone has clued in to the true depths of the scene they’ve just stumbled upon. And for a moment- just a few heartbeats and no longer- she locks eyes with the God of War. Liquid amber _glows_ with an imperious, gloating sort of triumph, accompanied by vicious glee and an all-consuming impatience.  
The cruelty in his gaze nails her to the spot. _This_ was one of the Gods she had worshiped so fervently? The one to whom so many had pledged their very _lives?_  
Then he turns his head, and the spell is broken.

All at once, the world seems to tumble back into place. The roar of the inferno in her ears, the cries of the Forged as they are cut down by her friends, and the _screaming._ Aurene can’t seem to stop.  
Balthazar is tugging on the chains that bind her, heedless of the awful, wailing screech she makes as she struggles to stay put. With another savage yank, he drags her towards the edge of the spire. Exhausted and distressed, Aurene is only able to put up token resistance to his brute strength, clawing and scrabbling uselessly at the dirt as she is forcibly hauled away. 

_“Move!”_ cries a desperate voice within, _“Gods, you have to move!“_

But every muscle in her body is wholly unable to obey her commands, gripped by a cold more chilling, more consuming than the farthest heights of the Shiverpeaks. Sudden and unstoppable, the ice in her veins steals every ounce of conviction she’d only just mustered up. Heat and determination leave her, drained from her body like vitality is sapped from the world during winter, leaving her hollow and brittle. All she can see is that shadow on the ground, slight and wiry, unmoving and so terribly familiar. 

Distantly, as if through a long tunnel, she hears Rytlock’s frustrated roar as Balthazar vanishes over the lip of the spire, down towards the ground, and with Aurene firmly in his grasp. There are too many Forged in their way, metal bodies glinting dangerously in the emerging sunlight as the flames die, their master departed. Eventually they too vanish into the smoke, leaving their fallen comrades behind, strewn like broken puppets across the shattered ground.  
They are left alone as the dust and ash settles, as the sun beats down on them from on high, as the distant silhouette of Kiel’s airship charges towards their position at full speed. Alone with the prone form at the center of the devastation, and a quickly mounting sense of horror.

She is unmistakable, even with the wounds that score the length and breadth of her body. Blue like the sky, a summer flower in full bloom, white swirls like clouds sweeping bark-like skin and tiny freckles dotting her cheeks. Elegant black horns curl back from the crown of her head and steel gray wings, usually tucked in close and neat, are now splayed uselessly at her back. Bright eyes turned sickeningly blank and unseeing _(lifeless!),_ stare at nothing. Absolutely nothing.  
Commander Taisie had fallen in a twisted heap, half turned on her side, with one hand forever reaching towards the spot Aurene had once occupied, a spot that now only holds gouges in the dirt, and liberal smears of ash and soot from the scion’s thrashing.

No matter where she looks, Kasmeer can see evidence of the brutal showdown that had happened here, just _seconds_ ago. Trails of scorch marks and other fiery scars, chunks of rubble torn from the sides of the ring of pillars and scattered across the battleground, _craters_ in the earth, and everywhere- _everywhere!-_ pools of thick, golden blood splashed across every conceivable surface.

Gods above, how can there be so _much?_

The ice trickles from her veins, baked away by the pounding desert heat and the sun above, and the increasingly sickening understanding that this… this is _real._ The evidence is all around them, a truth screamed from every cracked stone and shimmering puddle. Their commander is dead. Slain by a God who was supposed to be _protecting_ Tyria. 

Several feet away, Rytlock roars his frustration and outrage to the sky, flanked by an uneasy Canach. Unaware. They still haven’t noticed. _Why don’t they notice?_

A low, tortured sound tears from her throat as her legs shake, then give out beneath her. Kasmeer crashes to her knees next to the body, raising a trembling hand up to her mouth as grief and despair viciously constrict her heart. This should not be possible. _Nothing_ could kill the Commander. 

_"No…"_

His ears twitch as Rytlock finally stops his growling and snarling. Sohothin's flame fades to a faint glow along the woven metal as he sheathes the sword at his side, dark eyes finally turning towards his stricken companion.

"Kas? Wha- oh… oh _burn me."_

Rytlock's quiet, sudden horror is a stake to Kasmeer's brutalized heart, the final nail in the coffin. This _is_ real, then, and not some sick illusion. This isn’t some awful trick. Taisie is _dead._  
Hysteria, sudden and overwhelmingly powerful, sweeps through her like a tidal wave. It washes over every other emotion within her, and Kasmeer is suddenly dizzy and rudderless, spinning like a broken compass, for the first time without a hand to guide her.

No Jory. No Gods. No Commander.

"What… what do we do?" She gasps, wrapping her arms around herself in a desperate attempt to hold herself together, _"What do we do?!"_

Canach kneels down beside her, gently prying her arms loose and gripping her shoulders, wordlessly forcing her to sit up straight as she struggles to breathe. The swift correction of her posture makes it easier to breathe, but Kasmeer can still feel herself flying apart at the seams, the air rattling from her lungs in short, shallow pants. Tears stream down her face, dripping into her lap like summer rainwater, warm and utterly ceaseless. Neither of her friends have an answer for her. Such a job was usually dominated by the Commander.  
Taisie _always_ had an answer; a plan, and a backup just in case, or a warm, sweet smile to comfort and reassure those that followed her. She was steadfast and confident, offering a solid place for her allies to stand on in troubled times, and _now!..._  
Kasmeer bows her head, viciously biting her lip as she chokes on her despair. 

Balthazar has Aurene. He is going to use her to kill Kralkatorrik. They _have_ to get her back, or all is lost.  
But how can they ever hope to defeat him without the Commander?

Canach's grip on her shoulders is the only thing keeping her grounded in reality. The secondborn has obviously chosen to focus on trying to keep her calm, but Kasmeer can see him studiously trying to avoid looking at the body right next to them. She can see the disquiet reflected in his eyes as loudly as if he had shouted it, the private note of grief, and the question they are all unable to answer.  
_What do we do now?_  
He doesn’t make a sound.

Slowly, in quiet, lumbering footsteps, Rytlock makes his way over to their miserable little huddle, a towering and solid presence behind them. She hears him inhale, like he is going to say something, anything, before he is interrupted by the distinct sound of footsteps- claws scraping over weathered stone, the grit of sand underfoot, loose pebbles falling away and clattering down the side of the spire.

A single charr hauls herself over the edge of the spire, and perches on the ruined ground just a few feet away. 

The pristine, snowy white of her fur is blinding under the light of the sun, striking against the tattered black robes she wears. Dark, smokey metal trims the collar and shoulders, linked by a single chain stretching across her neck. Inky feathers and dyed leather line her robes, highlighted with spiderwebs of sickly green light. Eerie, teal eyes lock on all three of them, startled, for barely are heartbeat.  
And then she glances away, to the still form lying just beside them, almost as if in slumber. 

It feels almost like intruding on something private, watching her eyes go wide with horror and disbelief. Kasmeer at once feels a certain kinship with this charr. She doesn't have to know her to feel immediately her despair and grief.  
The three of them can only watch as the charr takes a wobbly, unmeasured step forward. Her eyes take stock of the ground around them, the crumbling pillars, and the blood soaking the sand. Kasmeer feels her heart give a painful shudder, watching her put it all together. 

The response is swift and gut-wrenching. Her snout crinkles, teeth bared and eyes squinting in animal agony. An awful sound splits the heavy silence, a keening wail that has goosebumps prickling across Kasmeer's skin. She is struck with a reminder of the noises Aurene made as Balthazar hauled her away. Like someone had ripped the very heart from her chest. The charr sinks to her knees, long claws scraping sharply against the ground as her body _shudders._ She bows her head, muzzle pressed to the desecrated ground, and sobs- wordlessly, _desperately-_ as warm tears drip from her cheeks and kiss the earth, mingling with the golden glint of the Commander’s blood. A single fist pounds the cracked stone, just once, in obvious rage and Kasmeer can hear the faintest hint of miserable, whispered disbelief and denial on the wind.  
She has never seen a charr come apart like this before, and the experience is alien. At her side, Rytlock shifts in obvious agitation. His eyes are wide and mystified, mouth open around half-formed words of barest remembrance.

Does he know her?

Abruptly, the intruder lifts her head, transferring her watery gaze from Taisie’s body to the three of them, still packed closely together in their wordless desire for comfort. It’s jarring how quickly the loss and grief pooled in her strange eyes turns to hate. 

Canach tenses beside Kasmeer, one hand reaching for the sword at his hip as the charr hauls herself unsteadily to her feet. She sways as she _glares_ at them, mouth curving into an ugly snarl of unadulterated fury.

_“You!”_ she spits, and Kasmeer can see the lift of her shoulders as the air heaves in her lungs, and the impending violence in the set of her feet, _“This is **your** fault!”_

Magic thickens the air around them, dark and cold, with a subtle note of familiarity in it that has Kasmeer desperately wishing Marjory was with them.  
This charr is a necromancer, and her killing intent is evident. 

_“You’ll pay…”_ she chokes out, and her tail cuts the air like a knife as it lashes, _“You’ll **pay!”**_

Violently trembling claws reach for the weapons bound at her side, a battle-worn axe and a jagged, obsidian dagger. Canach and Rytlock shift for their own weapons, but Kasmeer can only think of her Commander, her _friend,_ still and vulnerable on the ground. She leans forward and pulls Taisie’s head and shoulders into her lap, heedless of the blood that smears her hands, or the heartbreaking coldness of the body. She just wants to protect her.

This is apparently the wrong move. 

The charr brandishes her weapons with a piercing cry of outrage.

_“Don’t touch her!”_

She leaps forward, a streak of scorching white in the air, a star falling from the sky.

She is immediately overtaken by a dark and lithe shadow, a figure charging into her out of seemingly nowhere. They roll over the earth, dust billowing in their wake, slamming to a stop against one of the crumbling pillars in a knot of flailing limbs and furious snarls.  
The other intruder- another charr, by the looks of it- pins her to the ground with a desperate huff, one paw clamped around the back of her neck, the other planted between her shoulders.  
They are a study in opposites, one white as snow, the other black as midnight. This new charr is smaller, slighter- covered in unobtrusive leather and an impressive array of feather-thin blades- tail swishing in agitation. She leans forward to whisper in the necromancer’s ears, urgent and insistent as the other charr jerks and struggles beneath her.

“Get off! _Get off me!”_ she hisses, and her eyes are wild and uncomprehending in her rage, “This is _their_ fault!”

"Sorna!"

The authoritative call is deeper and decidedly male. The struggling duo freezes as yet another charr crests the top of the spire, followed by what must obviously be the rest of their warband. Four other charr in total, and the narrow plateau is beginning to feel quite crowded, especially in the middle of so much destruction.

The first, who Kasmeer assumes to be their leader, is tall and sleek- muscled, but not bulky. His fur is ruddy and streaked with lighter, tawny stripes. The muddy brown horns stretching back from his skull are long, odd and wave-like, and a dark russet mane, braided and carefully studded with beads, trails down the back of his neck, disappearing into his worn leather coat. The bow at his back and the sizable Smokescale close to his side marks him as some kind of ranger. He eyes the white charr, apparently named Sorna, with disapproving golden eyes.  
Following closely at his heels is a charr that could be his mirror in almost every way. Her fur is the same shade of tawny striped red-brown, and her horns curve and bend in the same shape as his. She wears dark, heavy armor, and carries a sleek metal shortbow. She too watches Sorna, though her gaze is full of concern and confusion.

There's a harsh sound to Kasmeer's right, claws scraping against stone as Sorna is hauled to her feet by her shadowy subduer. She makes no move to attack them, but Kasmeer can see the black, baleful hatred still glittering in her eyes as she passes them. She can only watch, tense and bewildered, as Sorna is marched towards the warband in furious silence.  
By now, they too have caught sight of the body held protectively in her arms.  
None of them react as explosively as Sorna did.  
But Kasmeer can see the slump in their posture, and the startled, disbelieving grief in their eyes.

Everything is happening so quickly. _Too_ quickly. Where on Tyria did these charr come from? Why were they here _now?_ And how did they know the Commander?

Sorna is ushered to the edge of the plateau, away from prying ears, as the two look-alike charr take her from their 'bandmate and begin murmuring to her, as quietly and as urgently as the dark one had. Something they say obviously doesn't sit will with the necromancer. Her lip curls in bitter fury, and her eyes once again dart towards Dragon's Watch.

The rest of the warband is left in a tense face-to-face with Kasmeer and her friends. Though they are still not as vocal as Sorna, Kasmeer can _feel_ the enmity and anger choking the air around them, like a cobra coiled at her feet.  
Rytlock swells up behind her, tense and angry and privately confused. He watches the two charr attempting to pacify Sorna, and now there _is_ recognition in his eyes. Kasmeer tightens her hold on Taisie, anxious and uncertain, as the Tribune steps forward to challenge the other charr. 

Their response is immediate and distinctly hostile, moving to close ranks between Rytlock and their leader. The Tribune actually looks surprised, and a little outraged, at their defiance.  
The largest of the warband steps forward to face Rytlock directly. He is easily the biggest charr Kasmeer has ever seen, taller even than the Tribune. His fur and mane are the same shade of wheat blond, marred by the plethora of scars criss-crossing his body. He wears the armor of a gladiator, a gleaming silver liberally painted with streaks of old, dry blood. He sneers at them, bull-like horns casting jagged shadows over his face as he sets his shoulders back and towers menacingly over Rytlock.

"Tribune." his voice is a rumble like distant thunder, sapphire eyes stark and unfriendly as he greets his superior. 

"Crixus Cleavespirit." Rytlock finally gives the hulking charr a name, slipping seamlessly back into his role amongst his people, "What are you doing here, soldier? Are you under orders?"

"No… sir." The large charr adds the honorific almost as an afterthought. He doesn't take his eyes off Rytlock for even a moment, as unmoved as a statue. "The High Legions did not send us."

"Then _who did?"_ Rytlock growls, and Kasmeer can see his already thin patience fraying at the edges. They've lost so much today. The last thing any of them needs is a wrestle with bureaucracy. 

Nothing about Crixus gives anything away. His face is carefully blank, his eyes neutral, his posture displaying nothing but tense preparedness. Kasmeer can almost mark him as a member of the Ash Legion, or at the very least someone who is very good at poker. He doesn't respond beyond purposefully flashing his eyes towards the cold, broken body in Kasmeer's arms. 

Just as Rytlock is about to demand more answers from the mysterious warband, the argument whispered furiously between Sorna and the two matching charr reaches a fever pitch. Sorna's back is ramrod straight, teal eyes narrowed and teeth bared in a snarl Kasmeer is beginning to believe is a permanent fixture of her face. She spits something at the two and backs away away from them, claws tightening around the axe she's yet to put away. Everyone perched on the plateau tenses, waiting to see what the agitated charr does next. 

The necromancer lifts her free hand, claws splayed as she seems to _press_ into the air, like its nothing more than a partition, or a curtain she can sweep aside. An unhappy wave passes through the collective warband.

"Sorna," their leader begins, "You can't just-"

Green light gathers between Sorna's claws, spreading over her hand and forearm like a gauntlet. She traces a perfect circle in the space in front of her, carving through the air like its thick, wet clay. The sickly light follows her movement, like ink across parchment. It bleeds inward like wet paint, fills out the empty space at the center, swirling hypnotically. 

She's created a mist portal. 

Kasmeer can't even imagine how, but there it is in front of her. 

"If you won't do anything about this," the white charr seethes, despairing tears once again soaking her fur and dripping from her chin, "then _I will!"_

She leaps through without another word. The putrid green glow of the portal swallows her whole. There's a sound like rushing wind, like the whispers of a thousand fallen souls clustered around them, and then the portal winks shut, leaving them once again numb and bereft at the top of the spire.  
Silence reigns for a few tense, palpable heartbeats.  
The ranger and his double make their way back to the head of the warband. Crixus immediately defers to them, allowing them to take his place going toe to toe with Rytlock.  
The angry, frustrated set of his jaw has returned. The Blood Legion Tribune is unhappy. 

"Centurion Fleance Spiritshard. Legionnaire Axelle Spiritforged." Rytlock addresses them by name, and Kasmeer can tell it is strictly for the benefit of herself and Canach. They do not know these charr, but Rytlock obviously does.

"Tribune Brimstone." The Centurion greets Rytlock with a neat bow of his head, looking only mildly apologetic at his superior's foul mood, "We apologize for the… abrupt interruption." 

Rytlock curls his lip at Fleance, verdant eyes narrow and suspicious.

_"Why are you here,_ soldier?"

"Orders, sir." The Legionnaire pipes in, her voice smooth and placating, "From the Commander." 

"From the _Commander?"_ Rytlock challenges, disbelief evident on his face, "How do you know the Commander?"

The answer comes in the form of a much smaller charr-- dramatically smaller, in fact. She looks young; young enough for Kasmeer to feel the slightest twinge of concern.  
Her fur is light and sandy, a medium shade of beige, and her muzzle and mane are a searing shade of snowy white. Ram's horns curl elegantly from her skull, gently framing her face. A golden headpiece stretches conspicuously across her forehead, glinting as the sun's rays catch on the small chunk of jasper settled at the center. Her armor is dark, like smoke and ash, and appears to be secondhand, yet still sturdy and durable. Her ochre eyes burn like hot coals, simmering with all the rage and aggression of youth. If this one is actually an adult, Kasmeer will eat her shoe.  
The little one creeps around her leaders, almost stalking out of her hiding place, sheltered behind the bulk of her warband.

"We're from her guild." she bites at them, almost imperiously, her small sharp teeth bared in a half-snarl as she gestures toward Taisie, "Her _other_ guild!"

Crixus grabs her by the collar and hauls her back into the safety of their little cluster, exasperation painting the tilt of his jaw.

Kasmeer feels a pit forming in her stomach, a seed of dread and uncertainty.

Other guild?

"Taisie doesn't have another guild." The words are out before she can stop them, before she can even think on them. They are the first she's spoken since breaking down, and they are spoken with far more confidence and conviction than she actually feels. It's more of a denial than anything else.  
Because Taisie can't have another guild. Dragon's Watch is special. Unique. They are all that the young sylvari had… right?

Axelle is watching her with something like pity in her eyes. And something like vengeance.

"I'm sorry." She says, and she doesn't sound at all apologetic, "But it's the truth."

Canach shifts beside her, and Kasmeer almost startles. He'd been so quiet, and when she looks at him, she can see that his eyes have been carefully shuttered. She hasn't seen him look this blank and expressionless since Maguuma… since he struggled to hide the weight of Mordremoth's voice without buckling.  
But there's a few hints here and there that Kasmeer has learned to see with careful practice. He is grim… but not surprised. Did he know about all this? 

His eyes watch the sky. When Kasmeer follows his gaze, she is shocked to see that Kiel's airship has gotten so close. She's been so wrapped up in the violence and tragedy bleeding over the dusty stone plateau that she'd hardly noticed the _Phoenix Dawn's_ swift approach. But there it is, hard industrial metal glinting under the midday sun as it pulls alongside the crest of the spire. Kasmeer can just make out the shape of Fidus Foecrush standing at the bow of the airship, numerous other Lionguard rushing about the canons, as if preparing for battle. Likely, they’d been able to see the short-lived fight from their lofty vantage point.  
All is quiet as the airship slowly crawls to a halt. An older, portly asura lowers the gangway to rest against the plateau, while his comrades see to securing the rest of the ship. 

Fidus himself approaches them cautiously, endless questions in his eyes as he takes in the scene-- the damaged arena, the strangers, the body. It’s obvious he doesn’t quite know what to say. 

Rytlock’s hostile growl slices neatly through the silence, as searing and angry as Sohothin’s flame.

“The Commander and I have fought shoulder to shoulder together for _five years.”_ he states, “And in that time she’s never once mentioned _any_ of you to me, much less some other guild.”

Fleance’s warband bristles collectively, and Kasmeer can plainly see that something about Rytlock’s statement has gravely offended them.

“You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t know anything about, _Tribune.”_ Crixus sneers, arms crossed tightly over his chest, as if he’s fighting to physically hold himself back. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Fidus finally steps in, slowly shuffling in between the two parties with his palms raised. Despite his attempt at placating everyone, his nervousness is obvious. “There are more Forged raiding parties in the area. We need to clear out while we can.”

While their hostility doesn’t fade in the slightest, the choking cloud of impending violence in the air recedes. Crixus unclenches his fists. The fur on his shoulders lays a little flatter. But then he moves, striding forward in heavy, shuffling footsteps. His blood-tarnished armor clinks softly with each step forward. He’s headed straight for her.  
Kasmeer freezes- she dare not even breathe. No one else moves. She stares up at him as his shadow falls overhead, almost larger than life this close to her. Magic sings in her blood, seconds away from bursting from her veins and flooding into her hands, warm and familiar. But his expression stops her cold.  
His eyes are sad. There’s a deep, unyielding despair housed within them, a grief that seems perversely at home within those blue depths- blue like rainwater, blue like tears. Crixus kneels before her and, with heartbreaking gentleness, lifts Taisie’s body from her arms. Kasmeer itches to stop him, for only a moment, several straining beats of her heart. The only thing that stays her hand is the way he handles the body of her friend and leader. The enormous charr cradles her like a child. In his arms, she’s dwarfed by him, and he treats her like the frailest of spun glass. 

His chin trembles, jaw clenched and eyes misty. He stands, turns, and lumbers towards the airship. His warband slowly turns to follow him.

The further he gets, the more the world seems to tumble away under her feet. That quiet, shadowy numbness has stolen back into her heart, as silent as her absent Gods. The world is duller now than it was this morning. It's missing someone important. And as Kasmeer slowly lifts herself to her feet, taking care to stay near Rytlock and Canach, it feels as if some great paradigm has shifted, as if the world has careened headfirst into uncharted territory. 

As she makes her way onto the airship, Kasmeer is struck by the all-consuming knowledge that everything- _everything-_ is about to change.


End file.
